“There was a bit of a public altercation,” she said. “Altercation?”

“I suppose you heard what happened to your brother’s character?”

“Oh,” Scarlett said. “Oh…Oh no.”

“I requested a little sit-down to discuss what was going on. So one of the producers and I had cocktails last night. Apparently, they liked him quite a bit, as an actor and as a character. But apparently the audience wants justice. Plus, there were issues with the writers, with scripts that were already completed…the usual back office nonsense…and the only solution they could come up with to move the entire story forward was to beat him to death.”

“So,” Scarlett said, desperately trying to piece this all together in the thin early morning air, “you met with the producer and…”

“Well, I threw a drink at him, which was not considered appropriate behavior in the establishment we were in. And I may have slapped him just a tiny bit. Hence, the law. It’s all part of the strategy, O’Hara. I wanted them to know that you do not play with the AAA. What a good slogan that is! Oh, I’m exhausted. But the night wasn’t so bad. It’s not the first night I’ve ever spent in a holding cell. Granted, the last time was after a night out sometime in the late seventies and I was arrested with seven other people who were dressed primarily in gold body paint. Half of them just thought we were in a different club called Jail. They kept dancing against the bars and trying to buy drinks from the cops. Anyway…you need to get to school.”

Mrs. Amberson got up with the first trace of stiffness Scarlett had ever seen her exhibit. When she got into the cab, she luxuriated against the padded vinyl seat for a moment, closing her eyes in bliss and weariness.

“The battle is not over,” Mrs. Amberson said, stifling a yawn. “It’s not going to be easy, but it’s not over.”

“But Spencer is famous now,” Scarlett said. “Can’t he be on something else?”

“His flash of fame is a bit of a problem, O’Hara. It’s going to be a bit hard to get him employed after this, at least for the short term. Everybody saw David Frieze. That’s who Spencer is now. The most hated man in New York. Even the cake incident…that was covered all over the place. I’m not exactly going to be able to get him cast on Sesame Street.”

“I thought there was no such thing as bad publicity,” Scarlett said.

Mrs. Amberson turned and managed a smile.

“True,” she said. “There is always a way. I try to embrace philosophy.”

“Which philosophy?”

“As many as possible.”

She fell into a light sleep, which was easily broken when the cab pulled up to Frances Perkins.